Page 51 of Cherry Picking
When I feel the first bit of pressure on my knee, I stop bearing weight on the band and take a breath. Count to ten. Start again. When the discomfort starts, I take a break. Repeat.
Thirty counts later and sweat is starting to pool at my temples and beneath the fabric brace on my knee. Nash takes the band and comes back with a bottle of water.
“You’re improving well, Riley. Don’t rush it.”
I already know I’m out for the season. I’d have to be cleared by my surgeon and our entire PT team, and I don’t see anyone signing off on that anytime soon. Besides, it’s clear the team doesn’t need me. They’re having the season of their careers.
We wrap up, but before I can hit the showers, Coach Pickman comes through the doors with one of his folders like a man on a mission. Beelining straight for me.
“I need you to do me a favor, Easton.”
As he gets closer, I can see a label on the back of the folder that clearly saysFoster, Griffinin big, bold letters.
“That’s only mildly concerning.”
He sits beside me on the bench and holds the folder out to me. I hesitate, because I normally focus on the D-men and some of the forwards and leave the goalie coach to his own devices, but Coach drops it in my lap with such casual decisiveness that I grip onto it purely so I don’t lose its contents all over the floor.
“I need you to look at Coach Dickens’ notes for this season and tell me if you have any suggestions.”
Looking through it, the guy is thorough and actually pretty fucking strict, but I already knew that from Griff’s bitching and the amount of ice baths he’s been indulging in lately.
“Nah. I think he’s got most of Griff’s weak points nailed down. It might help to break up some of the monotony, though. Maybe get him in a shooting practice with some of the lower line guys. Hell, do a pit against Roman, and see if that gets him going a little. Make him actually run the ice.”
I make a couple of notes in the margins and then hand the folder back to Coach. “You worried about him? I heard whispers of switching him and Roman around on the roster.”
Coach scoffs in the way that old people do when you say something completely reasonable that they think is ridiculous.
“For a while there he was playing like absolute dog shit, and we all know it. I don’t know who pulled his head out of his ass, but I’m damn thankful for it.”
It doesn’t feel right taking credit for his sudden good mood, but the way we fucked the night I promised to tell my family about him was sure a good indication things were looking up.
“Why the sudden interest in his games? Something come up?”
Coach fiddles with the brim of his cap and flicks his thumb across his nose. “You could say that. There’s some talk of the Rippers calling him up to be backup for a few games.”
Elation and terror flood my brain in the same instant.
“You’re trying to prepare him if they go through with it.”
He nods. “The kid has gone through teams like a teenage boy goes through condoms. He’s stuck it out here longer than anywhere else, and I’m damn proud to have him, but I think he deserves this shot.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“And psych him out? Hell no. I’m supposed to hear back from the GM before we hit the road again. Give me time to make sure I’ve got all the players I need.”
That’s a week away. We’ve got two home games before traveling out to play against Iowa. So, that’s a week for upper management to decide if Griff is good enough to warm the Rippers’ bench.
“That means no telling him yourself, son. I know the two of you are close, but I need his head in the next few games and not off in dreamland.”
I’m happy for him, proud of him, but I definitely wouldn’t want to be the one breaking that news to him. My time in the NAPH feels like a lifetime ago, but it still stings.
If the doctors in the majors had given me a chance, given me a little more time to heal, I could have gotten back on the horse and proven myself. Instead they sent me down as a ‘temporary’ measure and abandoned me here.
“Why’re you checking with me anyway? It’s not like I really know much about the position.”
Coach tucks the folder under his arm and gets to his feet. “You have a good eye for the details. I’ve watched you run extradrills with some of the players in your off time to help them work things out. They respect your input, and I figured while you’re in recovery, you could use something to pass the time.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
